


(Make Me Come) Undone

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Stripper AU, Stripper!Bucky, Subby!Bucky, also guest starring my blatant love for Florence + the Machine, but Bucky is a soft boi™ and you can pry him from my cold dead hands, domme!Reader, domme/sub vibes, not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: Bucky notices her simply by chance. Mid-routine, his eyes find hers through the low light, locking her with a sultry gaze while he crawls down the stage. Most women blush when he does this, first-timers and bachelorette parties that have never set foot in a stripclub before, but this woman…





	(Make Me Come) Undone

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first new fic I've posted in a good, long while, and I am indebted to Tanya and Elle for chucking this plot bunny my way. Enjoy

Bucky notices her simply by chance. Mid-routine, his eyes find hers through the low light, locking her with a sultry gaze while he crawls down the stage. Most women blush when he does this, first-timers and bachelorette parties that have never set foot in a stripclub before, but this woman… She meets him with a look that is appreciative, that glides over every inch of bare skin, from his slightly parted mouth, down his glistening torso, pausing a moment at his hips in a way that makes him roll them with a little more oomph than he usually does. Bucky knows he’s good at what he does, that women appreciate his body for the fantasy it allows them to indulge in. Hell, he wouldn’t spend his mid-mornings ironing out ones and fives if he wasn’t. But this, the way she looks at him, it makes him want to show off, makes him want to perform like she is the only woman in the room regardless of the reaching hands that tuck bills down his thong.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, and god, he can’t stop himself. Amidst a gaggle of women clamoring to linger just a bit while they pull teasingly at his thong to slip bills between the elastic, he feels himself getting hard. Fuck. It’s not the most convenient bodily response to have in his profession, and he’s gotten good at not letting touches or revealing clothing or whispered confessions get a rise out him. You either go in relaxed or you go in hard, like Wilson because god, that man is a fucking showboat, but for fuck’s sake, you do not get hard mid-dance because that has trouble written all over it.

Normally, Bucky’s routine would have him finish on his back, thrusting up into the air to the final beats of the song, but yeah, no, he is not taking that risk with a burgeoning hard-on. It’s not his smoothest retreat from the catwalk-like offshoot and back to the main stage, but what can you do. His finish is not as smooth, but he manages to hide his situation by climbing the pole set in the middle of the stage, one thigh pulled up to obscure himself from view. To the audience, it’s all the same it seems, howls and whistles following him as he retreats. Bucky wishes he could see her face again.

“The hell was that?” Sam asks when the pass each other backstage. “You getting sloppy, Soldier?”

“It’s nothing, okay?” Bucky grabs a towel from a hanger, wrapping it around his waist and rolling his neck to stretch the muscles there.

Sam snickers, “Sure, man, that’s a whole lotta nothin’ you’re hiding.” He points to the bulge that Bucky’s towel doesn’t quite hide.

“Flap off, Flamingo.”

“It’s Falcon, and you know it!”

Bucky gives him the finger, stalking off to the dressing rooms. It’s a glorified locker room, and the first time he walked into it, he had such a strong flashback to high school that he had to look around to make sure Coach Pierce wasn’t lurking in a corner. Each dancer has a locker for their stuff, a hamper for costumes to be cleaned. An adjacent room holds the wardrobe, each person’s garments sectioned off with a big name tag. It wasn’t exactly what Bucky had intended to work with after college, but it gave him some sorely needed spending money that made the salaries from his freelancing job last a little longer. And, yeah, maybe he liked it a little. The looks, the whistles, even the touches. To be adored, to play into a fantasy, to become their chosen companion when they ordered a dance afterwards. He keeps hoping she’ll order a dance, but the hours trickle away and he doesn’t see her again all evening.

“Careful, James.” Natasha, the club’s owner is standing outside smoking a cigarette when he walks out to go home. It’s closer to morning than anything, and he feels tired to the bone.

“Yeah, I know, I’m gonna get a cab,” he mumbles, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Natasha pushes off the wall, dropping the cigarette to squash it under the heels of her boots. “Not what I’m talking about. You think I missed how you walked around like a lost little puppy tonight? Whoever she is, be careful. She is a customer and you are worth more than the disappointment.”

Bucky shrugs, waving her off and walks to until he gets to one of the busier streets. He finds a cab, snoozing until he gets home and drags himself up the stairs to his apartment. He needs to swing by the bank tomorrow. Again. Shit, he’s gonna have to leave early for his dance studio appointment. And then the commission sitting in his inbox, and the-

He falls asleep faceplanted into his pillow, and though he doesn’t remember any of it, he knows when he wakes up with his hard cock pressing into the mattress that the woman from the night before has starred in his dream. With a groan, he rolls over, still half asleep, and wraps his fist around his cock. The pleasure is warm and lazy, wrapping itself around him and making soft noises trip from him. He’s usually quiet when he jerks off, barely even making a sound when he cums, but now he’s whining and his breaths carry sighs on them, little pleas forming and dying on his tongue as he works himself closer and closer. His orgasm takes him by surprise, sharp and overwhelming and his moan is so new to him it seems to echo in his bedroom.

Bucky’s heart thunders while he dries himself off. Fuck.

He’s not gonna tell Nat that maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

It’s smooth sailing for a week and a half. He dances his shifts, finishes the commission he’s been stalling on, works on his new number in the dance studio just a block from his apartment, consults Wanda about his outfit for it. She’s a sweet girl, moonlighting while she’s studying at Parsons, and Bucky sometimes wonders how bizarre it must be to fashion sequined thongs and rip-away pants for someone who looks up to haute couture designers and wants to be the next Diane von Furstenberg.

There are gym days with Steve and Sam, playful jibes about leg days and who is the reigning champ that week. There’s pay day and Nat gives him a sly smile and a low “atta boy, Barnes”. She knows he won’t be able to work forever, none of them will, so she makes sure they are taken care of. Bucky can still remember the ice cold rage in her eyes when a newbie once came back from a private dance shaking and stuttering after the client had stepped so grossly over the line that they were summarily banned for life.

He works, he rehearses, he sweats and works some more. And then she’s there again.

His heart skips a beat when he spots her, same seat as last time, dressed in what he can only describe as a power suit. Black pants and a white shirt under a black blazer, the cut made even sharper by the stilettos on her feet. The sleeves of both the shirt and the blazer are pushed up, and she has one arm draped around the shoulders of another woman. The poor thing looks like a deer in headlights while she looks to be having the time of her life. Despite the risk of getting another awkward boner mid-routine, Bucky crawls out onto the catwalk, writhing and showing every lean muscle moving under the spotlights. He wants her to look, wants to see the appreciation, the approval in her eyes, quirking an eyebrow to challenge her.

Watching her from a distance, while the audience closest to the stage holler and wave bills at him makes Bucky wish for his new number to be completed and cleared for the roster. He wants to capture her, be captured by her, booked for dance after dance. It’s a dangerous thought. Clients are clients and what happens inside the club rarely carries once all of these people return outside to the cool air to extinguish the fires stoked by Bucky and the other dancers.

She leans over, whispers something to her friend. The way the young woman looks down in a flash makes Bucky’s head spin with all the possibilities. What sweet words did she use? Or were they raunchy, even lewd? She hands over a bill, and suddenly her companion is moving to the stage, approaching him with apprehension, eyes skitting over his body. Aw. Bucky stills, sitting back on his haunches when she approaches, fighting to keep back the smile when she reaches out with the bill - a fifty - trembling between her fingers. Fixing her with his gaze, he leans forward, going slow so as not to spook her, and takes the bill between his teeth. It’s a miracle the little thing doesn’t have a heart attack, and she scurries off back to… whatever the woman that has captured his attention so much is to this innocent guest. With her friend back, arm once again slung around her, she blows a kiss for Bucky. Bucky quirks an eyebrow back.

 _There’s more where this came from,_  he wants to tell her.

 _I’ll give you this and then some,_  he wants to call after her.

 _Ask for me,_  he wishes as he saunters off stage.

When Natasha comes in fifteen minutes later to let him know he has a private client, Bucky nearly leaps off his chair. Nat rolls her eyes and shakes his head. Not her. His excitement dies down, and although he makes quite a lot of cash that night, he goes home aching for a woman that seems hellbent on keeping him on his toes.

He works, he dances, he trains.

She comes, alone and in company, watching with those ever so tantalizing eyes, never books a dance.

Bucky has lost counts of how many mornings he has woken up with the ghost of her lips on the shell of his ear and her hand on his cock, and he finds that as much as he hates the tension, he also relishes in it. She holds him in the palm of her hand, and he willingly lets her, mumbling needy pleas until he cannot hold back and stains his stomach and his bedsheets.

He works. He dances. Nat clears his new routine, Wanda fixes up his costume.

“You ready?”

Bruce, the club’s sound and light guy, looks over at Bucky, who gives a thumbs up. The mask is maybe… a little dramatic, but he loves the way it finishes off the look. The stage is dark when he walks out onto it, takes position and discreetly gives Bruce the sign. Breath. The song thunders from the speakers, spotlights turning and focusing on him.

_Holy water cannot help you now…_

It’s a different routine to what he’s been doing so far. Sultrier, relying more on passion and seduction and the straight-up thrusting and overt moves that are generally a go-to. There are no howls, no wolfwhistles. He has the audiences full attention, and he basks in it. At the start of the chorus, he swings up onto the pole, spinning and rolling and sliding until he pulls himself into a leg hang, tearing the netted shirt clean down the middle. He lets himself hang suspended for a moment, bared and vulnerable, trusting that the inset fabric on the inside of his thighs will create enough friction.

Bucky knows he's got his audience in his pockets when moments later stalks down the runway, teasing down the waistband of his cargo pants. And there she is. Same spot, same riveted gaze that holds his. One hand is daintily holding a flute of champagne, the bubbly drink forgotten in favour of his performance. It makes his heart beat faster in his chest. Turning back, he pulls a chair from the floor, setting smack dab in the middle of the catwalk. He rarely does this as part of his routines, and when he does it's with a co-conspirator. Bucky stalks along the edges, his kohled eyes seemingly searching. He already knows where Sharon sits. She's one of the few at the dance studio who knows just what he is practicing for when he's there, and she doesn't judge. Pointing at her and crooking his finger, he gets her attention, calls her to him.

Sharon does a pretty good job of seeming unaffected at first, but her blush betrays her. They never rehearsed with the outfit, and when his hands go to unbuckle the heavy belt, her eyes widen. Bucky pulls them off in a rip of velcro. The first collective gasp, like soughing rush tickles up his spine. He's standing in front of Sharon, feet wide apart in nothing but combat boots, lacy boy shorts and fishnet stockings.

_Til I save your heart and I take your soul…_

Sharon has played her part for now, and he returns his attention to the crowd, kneeling on all fours to prowl like a cat, shoulder blades moving enticingly and the spotlight following him. Hands begin reaching, there is a reverence to how they tuck their ones and fives into his underwear. When Bucky looks up, he halts, frozen in place. She has moved from her seat to stand right at the end of the catwalk, a fan of bills in her hand and a wry smile on her lips. Warmth bubbles inside him, searing through his blood and Bucky is drawn to her as if a leash has been put around his throat.

One by one, she plucks the bills from the fan, slipping them inside the waistband. Bucky’s up on his knees, breathing slow and steady. He can feel the music flow to him, a surge of energy that sparks with every touch of her fingers against his heated skin. She hesitates with the last bill, mouthing something that he can’t quite make out the meaning of, but this silent communication, an acknowledgement makes him want to rush through the end. All that heat and exhilaration is pooling lower and lower and he’s hard and aching before he’s even made it off stage after the music has faded out and the room once again fills with sound.

“Don’t even bother.” Natasha shows up out of nowhere, handing him a towel. “You’re booked.”

“Jesus, let me at least finish my withdrawal and change out of these,” Bucky grouses, picking bills from the underwear. They’re pretty and all, but god, how they itch. He’ll take the thong he wears under the lacy scrap any goddamn day of the week.

“Lock the cash away, but your ATM situation is going nowhere,” Natasha tells him. “Client specifically requested you keep those on. Gotta say, not bad, did Wanda make those?”

“Shut up, boss. What room?”

“Nine.”

The lounge? It was the biggest of the private dance rooms, and booking a dance there cost a mint.

“Who is it?”

He has… regulars, for lack of a better word. They book him on and off for private dances, but only a few of them would ever splurge on booking him in the lounge. His mind goes through the list, picking out the ones most likely. Nat squares him with a look, cocking her head.

“Don’t make me regret this.” She pokes his chest, and turns on her heel, breezing off back to the front room. “Oh, and bring your music!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, picks himself clean of bills and deposits them in his locker before freshening up and running past Bruce to queue up the same song and a few other favourites for the lounge’s sound system. Steve’s on stage, and it’s hard not to smile because Steve is out there doing things dressed in the American flag that would make the Founding Fathers blush. Save possibly for Benjamin Franklin.

The door that leads into the lounge is as unassuming as the others that lead to private dance room; matte black, a simple twist doorknob. It gives clients the air of privacy, of secrecy and entering a hideout. Bucky sets the mask back in place, twists the knob and swings the door open. The lounge is a little bigger than the other private rooms, a stage with a pole and champagne chilling in a bucket by the opulent leather couch.

And there, sitting with a champagne flute in one hand and with one leg crossed over the other, she is.

Bucky is glad of the mask, it doesn’t betray the way his mouth falls open just a little in surprise. She smiles at him, bobbing her foot and looking him up and down. Measuring him up, as he measures her. Alone in a room, he dares look at her more closely, making note of the sharp cat eye eyeliner, the cut of her outfit, the delicate way she holds her drink.

“I figured there would be very little talking, but absolute silence? That’s unexpected,” she tells him, cocking her head.

“Any specific requests then, miss?” Bucky asks, his voice muffled slightly by the mask.

Repositioning herself, she takes a sip, humming at the taste, “I like that. Miss. You may call me that. What do I call you? You don’t really look like a soldier”

It’s a stage name like any other, one that has stuck with him from his first performances. Bucky walks over to the sound system, sets the song from his number playing, walking over to her and leaning down to come face to face with her.

_Holy water cannot help you now..._

“You can call me anything you’d like.”

He doesn’t do the routine exactly as he did on the main stage. Less space and what not, but Bucky makes up for it. Keeping eye contact with her, letting her take Sharon’s place. She doesn’t move a muscle, although he notes that her fists are clenched when he pulls away.

“Take it off.” Her voice has lowered to a whisper, thick with lust. “The mask, take it off.”

The order makes Bucky start to harden, all too happy to oblige now. They’ve measured each other and found the other person just as affected. No need to play coy. He drops the mask next to her, and she raises one hand, nearly touching him.

“Such a pity. All of this smooth skin, making yourself pretty for all of us watching, and we can’t tell you how soft you must feel. Uh-uh, stay.”

He was about to pull away, go back to the pole, give her something more to look at, but her words, her order, cements him in place, swaying and grinding against her. He wants to be touched, wants her hands on him, making his nerves sing.

“Fuck…” he whispers, angling his hips to grind against her thigh, making his cock twitch.

“I know there are cameras in here, but maybe… like this… if I just put my hands right here.” She pulls her hands to rest in her lap, biting her lips when Bucky pushes against it. “I’m not touching… We just… accidentally brush together. And you look so pretty, does it feel good?”

There are cameras, an eye in the sky that keeps them honest and keeps them safe. They’re not boy scouts and they cannot assume their clients are. But fuck, sometimes it’s hard to be unaffected, and for Bucky, right now it’s fucking impossible. The song is reduced to a rhythm undulating up his spine, guiding his hips, and he grinds himself to full hardness against her hands, letting her feel every hard inch. The lace scratches against his thighs, but it’s a pleasant sensation, spurring him on, and underneath him, the woman’s breath grows more and more shallow.

He’s hers for one song only, and he wants to make the most of it for her. She shifts the position of her hand, making it possible to grind along the length of her palm. If she twitches, maybe squeezes a bit, well, then… It’s purely accidental, isn’t it?

“Miss…” he whispers, fearful that anything more will spiral into a moan and alert Natasha or anyone else who might be prowling outside.

“Fuck… Say it again.” Her head tips backwards, and god, Bucky wants to kiss up her neck.

“Miss…” Bucky takes a breath, leaning forward, nearly resting up against her. “What did you say? Up at the stage. You said something to me, didn’t you?”

“Mm-hmm, I did…”

_It’s a melody, it’s a battlecry, it’s a symphony…_

“What was it?”

She shifts again, and the next roll of his hips she wraps her hand around him, squeezes with intent and his back arches. It’s only by sheer luck that the moan trapped in his chest doesn’t claw its way up his throat. Her touch suspends him, traps him in a moment that boils down to the pleasure he feels pulsating against her hand. Bucky wants more, wants everything, will do anything to keep feeling the way he feels, to push it further, to-

“Patience, you’re not quite there yet, are you?” she whispers back, and he can hear the smile in her voice. She enjoys the subtle power she has over him.

He’s hers for one song only, and more than half of it has elapsed. Florence Welch unleashes the full potential of her voice, builds his resolve, makes him whisper the title chosen, desperate to please and to be pleasured.

_‘Til I tear the walls, ‘til I save your heart…_

“Please, please, please…”

Bucky is frantic, so close, knowing the seconds are slipping away from him. He needs it, needs to hear it, like the words are already there inside him, just waiting for her voice to unlock them and make him unravel. She moves lightning quick, like a magician’s sleight of hand. Now you see me, now you don’t, and her hand is inside, soft and fuck, she’s wrapped around him, skin against skin, and Bucky doesn’t care anymore about holding up the pretense of a lap dance, he grinds, bucks into her grip, breaths coming quick and shallow.

“Please, miss, please… Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”

There’s a fire in her eyes, burning hot and intense, and her gaze enraptures him. Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock. Bucky feels as if he is torn apart from the inside, he can’t- he needs-

“Good boy.”

Two words turn him to glass. Two words that drop him into freefall, shattering him as his vision blurs and he gives himself away to the pleasure, to her thumb rubbing small circles under the head of his cock, to ropes of white slowly seeping past the thong and into black lace, to the coos and hushes over the final chorus. He’s hers for one song only and now there is silence save for his heavy breaths and her low hums.

“Will you get in trouble?” she whispers, her breath tickling him.

Maybe. Depends on whether Nat feels she needs to check up on him. “No. No, I’ll be fine.” Bucky hopes he’s telling the truth, and wishes she believes him.

They linger on the couch as long as they dare, but it is all too short, and Bucky feels cold when he climbs off her lap. Even now, she looks pristine, her pants barely showing a wrinkle in them despite his labours. This is usually a simple process; the music ends, he thanks the client, tells them he hopes to see them again and then leaves. Now, he stretches every second he can get, fiddling with the sound system, rearranging the lace underwear, pulls at the stockings.

“I really enjoyed myself,” she tells him, getting up, and pulling at the lapels of her blazer. “Really, really enjoyed myself.”

Bucky can’t help the huffing laugh he gives. She enjoyed herself? She was not the one coming undone from grinding and the words “good boy”,

“I want to say we should do this again, but I fear we’d push our luck.”

He nods mutely, looking down at the shiny floor and missing the way she cocks her head.

“Well, a girl can dream, right?”

Then she brushes past him and walks out, leaving him alone under the dimmed lights. The mess in his thong makes him feel even colder, driving him off to the changing room. The stockings get peeled off, some lotion rubbed into the skin where indents have started to show. Outfit in the hamper, new one on. Back to business.

“You got another client.”

Some might have called his reaction a very undignified jump and screech. Some, like Sam, would be socked for that observation. Bucky spins and finds Natasha leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.

“Jesus, someone should put a bell on you!”

“Bold of you to assume someone hasn’t tried that,” she replies drily. “Another client is waiting, so chop, chop.”

“Fine, lemme touch up. What room?” Bucky mutters, readjusting his thong and grabbing the scented oil he likes to rub his chest and abs.

“Five. Music’s queued up.”

“Got it. I’ll be there in a sec.”

He turns around to finish up, assuming Nat will leave, but she’s still there when he spins around again. There’s a solemn expression on his face, and Bucky can feel his stomach drop. Fuck. This is not good.

“I’m not gonna go look, but if I were… I wouldn’t find anything that would make me have to do something drastic, right, Barnes?”

“How drastic?”

“Look me in the eyes, tell me I won’t find anything either of us will live to regret.”

Bucky keeps his expression flat, wetting his lips. “You won’t find anything either of us will live to regret.”

“Good.” Natasha stars walking away, her red hair dancing down her back. “Because I’d hate to have to ask you again.”

It’s as much of a warning as he’ll get, and Bucky recognizes a first strike when he sees one. Nat is usually not one for giving second chances lightly, having made a name for herself as a just and fair boss, but not one to trifle with. Maybe he should feel like a scolded schoolboy being sent to detention from the principal’s office, but he can’t. He can’t regret the indulgence, the sensation of yielding to the woman and letting her words guide him. Where before there was heat and electricity running through him, he only feels lax and calm. He hesitates outside room number 5, breathes, gets himself back into a mindset where he can focus.

It shouldn’t feel like such a disappointment to open and find one of his regulars sitting in the little booth. Bucky manages to pull his lips up into a smile, closing the door, pressing play. She has him for one song.

“Now what can I do for you tonight, angel?”

The client smiles. He dances. The words from earlier echo in his head.

_Good boy._

**Author's Note:**

> ...possibly to be continued? Or..?


End file.
